The Song of Hathor
by Chibi's Sister
Summary: A collection of flash fics, each revolving around a different obscure pairing involving Ishizu Ishtar. Chapter Four: Jadeshipping
1. Prophet

Prophecy

* * *

She knew from the beginning that his powers were a fraud. It wasn't the rumors that swirled around him, the awestruck mumblings of other duelist that intrigued her. The grim echoes of her own future danced before her eyes too often for such parlor tricks to have any mystique.

Truth be known, it was that gaggle of little boys, with their aqua-hair, lollipops, and unswerving devotion to their older brother that had taught her eye. Throughout the duel they cheered him on, and even once it was over, and the disappointment was as clear in their open, innocent eyes as it was in the dejected slump of his shoulders, they still encouraged him, told him it didn't matter, that he was their big brother and they would always love him, no matter what.

She had to swallow back a lump in her throat as she watched them. These boys had not had an easy life, yet they were so careless, so free in their love. From some deep part of her, she longed for a just a taste of such openness, of love that was not so bruised and battered that it hid itself behind iron shields.

Yet despite his open affection to his brothers, there was a shyness in his manner when he came up to offer her his Pot of Greed and his last locator card, eyes on the pavement. "Guess this is it for me," he sighed.

On a sudden impulse, she tapped into her Necklace, hoping for a glimpse of a bright future that she could offer him. As the vision came, her eyebrows rose, but then she shrugged softly. It wasn't as if it was such a bad future after all.

"Here, he mumbled, kicking at the street as he handed her the cards. "Guess you figured out I'm not much of a psychic after all."

"No," she murmured as she leaned in, brushing his blue-green bangs out of the way. "Otherwise you might have seen this coming."


	2. Apt

Apt

* * *

From the first moment she laid eyes on him, she knew it was a lost cause, but still, she was lost.

Throughout Kaiba's tournament Ishizu watched him discreetly, from the fringes of the crowd that always gathered around the Pharaoh, trying to fathom the delightfully bizarre sensations he caused in her chest just by being there. She had no idea what drew her to the boy—rough, blunt, modern, with none of the ancient dignity and grace that she had been raised to admire her entire life. Perhaps that was the very pith of it. He was different, fresh, a wind carrying the scent of greasy cheeseburgers and machine oil across her desert sands.

Whatever it was, it would have to be a private fascination. She was always careful around him, and barely spoke to him, save when he asked her a question. Neither in look, nor word, nor deed did she betray the thrill that ran through her head to toe at his cocky, crooked grin, at the defiant way he cocked his head when challenged, or at the deep grit that sometimes colored his voice. He was too close to the Pharaoh, for one, part of a sacred circle she knew she could never pierce, and some deep instinct told her to keep her distance.

And then there was the girl…a pretty, delicate little thing, with hair the color of desert rock, and wide eyes that bared her tender heart to the world. A sweet, innocent girl, too naïve even to realize the boy's feelings, no matter how obviously he demonstrated them. No one took him seriously. Her brother warned him off, his friends all rolled their eyes, and the black-haired boy with the dice just pushed him aside. Everyone assumed it was just another teenage crush that he'd get over as soon as she was out of sight for a few days.

Everyone except Ishizu, that is. But then, no one else had seen their future.

So, she watched him from the shadows, her fascination spirally ever-deeper, even as she knew deep within her, that she would never earn one of those crooked grins, never touch those muscled arms, and never catch a taste of cheeseburger on those lips. It was always going to be that girl with her fragile, eggshell skin and rusty hair that was going to bring out those incongruous blushes and those delightful embarrassed grins.

Still, she watched, taking what pleasure she could in those long, stolen glances, because she had long grown used to wanting things she could not have.


	3. Avis

Avis

"One day, the Pharaoh will return. It may be soon, even within your lifetime, my children. And when he comes, you must be ready."

_The Pharaoh_. All of her young life Ishizu had heard about the great Pharaoh who had saved the world at the cost of his memories. All of her life she had dreamed about the day he would return.

What would he look like? She had seen the stone carvings that depicted his battles a thousand times, even traced the strong lines of his face and the high peaks of his hair with the tips of her fingers. But there were so many details that simple lines in granite could not tell her. Details that her fertile imagination loved to go over again and again. What color was his hair? Would it be inky black, like hers and Odion's, or moon-white, like Marik's? Or even, she wondered sometimes, would it be grey, like her father's? The Pharaoh was very ancient, after all. But all the carvings showed him as a young man, just a little older than Odion, maybe, and Ishizu could not bring herself to think of him as old. No, his hair could not be grey. But what color was it? She longed to know, longed to see it in vivid color, not red-brown rock. Not just the hair, but his eyes, his skin.

She closed her eyes, trying to picture it in her mind: the Pharaoh, returned at last. Would he be solemn, his eyes as serious as they were on the stone tablet? Or would he smile? A curious feeling fluttered in her stomach at the thought. _A smile._ None of the carvings showed him smiling. What would be like, his smile? Proud and confident, as befitted a king? Gentle and wise? Or would there be something else in it? Something…special. She hugged her arms to her chest. Would he smile…she could hardly dare think it…at _her?_

She ducked her head, immediately embarrassed. Of course he wouldn't. He was the great king, and she was just his humble servant. She need not even speak to him, or him to her. It would be Marik's task to present the Pharaoh with the steps of the sacred ritual; he was to be the Tombkeeper. But she would be there.

_If_ he came while she was alive, she reminded herself. It could be another thousand years before his return, perhaps more. Or it could be ten. Or three. Or just one.

"Ishizu! Are you paying attention?" he father snapped.

Ishizu twisted her hands in her lap to hide her start of surprise. She lowered her eyes demurely. "Yes, Father."

He snorted. "You haven't listened to a word I've said. Foolish girl, your head filled with daydreams! Well, it's not fit to be filled with anything else. Not like Marik." He looked proudly at his son, who squirmed beneath his gaze. "Marik concentrates on his studies. He will bear his duties well." His eyes fell back on Ishizu as he remembered his original point. He scowled. "But even you, daughter, must learn the ancient lore. It cannot be forgotten, lest hundreds of years pass before the Pharaoh's return and all the knowledge be lost."

Ishizu merely nodded and bowed her head. _It won't be a hundred years,_ she thought. The strength of her conviction surprised her. _It will be soon._ She knew it, somehow, knew it deep within her. _I will be there. I will see him. He will see me._

And maybe, just maybe, he would smile.


	4. Jade

A/N: Yes, I have gone way too long without updating this collection. And this was completely not the pairing I thought I would revive it with. But when the muse beckons...

* * *

"You look beautiful tonight."

It's the first compliment of the night and she lets him make it, acknowledging it with only the slightest nod of her head. The room is crowded, teeming with eyes, and though she knows they are not all looking at her, she knows that some of them are. She holds her head high and lets him steer her through the room, arm just barely touching hers. He pulls out her chair with exaggerated chivalry and smiles at her curt nod. She watches him with narrowed eyes as he sits across from her and peruses the menu. She's still not sure this isn't some elaborate prank, some complicated joke with a private punchline.

But there's only guileless charm in those hypnotic green eyes that look up at her, bold and winking, as if smiling at her is something incredibly brave and daring. She doesn't trust him, but she lets him. She lets him smile and flirt and shower her with endless compliments. She lets him order the meal, with quiet amusement at the confident, almost arrogant way he mangles the foreign words. She lets him pour her a glass of wine that sparkles like a jewel when he holds it to the light. And then another, and another, until a flush rises on her cheeks and the only eyes she's thinking about are the ones looking back at her, green as Nile water.

When the food comes, she lets him try a bite off her plate and then tempt her into a tidbit off his own. He offers her the morsel with his fork, leaning in so close she can smell his cologne, and she lets him. She closes her eyes as she savors the food, and when she opens them, she lets him brush away a tendril of hair from her cheek. And later, when the lights are low, the music is soft, and the wine is tingling through her veins, just like his touch on her skin, she lets him lead her out onto the dance floor.

"Just relax," he whispers in her ear as he guides her confidently through the steps. His hand is at her waist, his touch is warm and possessive. His jade-green eyes are as guileless and charming as ever—and she still doesn't trust him. There's a catch, there always is—but nights like this one won't come again in a hurry, so she lets herself. She lets herself relax against the warmth of his body and sway with the rhythm of his pulse. She lets herself melt into the music and the moment and foronce, she lets herself not be the responsible one, not be the one always thinking of the consequences and what tomorrow would bring. For once, she lets herself think about tonight. For once, she lets herself be someone entirely different, some beautiful, desirable, and entirely free.

When the dance ends—for it must end—and she lets him lead her back to the table, she finally asks the question that's been on her mind all evening.

"Why?"

He looks at her and arches an eyebrow. "Why did I ask you here tonight?" He hesitates just a second, and then grins. "Honestly? To prove I can."

She gets the feeling he's expecting her to slap him, or at least to stand and walkout. But, oh, she's tired of being what she's expected to be. So instead, she leans forward and presses her lips to his.

When he finally pulls away and recovers his power of speech, he says only, "Why?"

She arches an eyebrow and smiles. "Because you already know."


End file.
